Scorched Earth
by Lipush
Summary: Tony just wanted some answers. As the saying goes- 'Be careful what you wish for'. A somewhat different approach on 13x24, "Family First".
1. Chapter 1

**A/N-** **So, this idea came up to me after watching that heartbreaking final. While I loved it, mostly, some issues didn't add up in my mind, and I thought certain aspects to be uncharacteristic and somewhat… off. Here is my attempt on fixing that.**

 **Fair warning. While this story is 'Tiva' related, it's not going to be fluffy-romantic whatsoever. It's going to be more angsty, if anything.**

 **Fair warning nu#2. This story is going to touch some conflicts and politics, too. I'll keep it to the minimum, but it's necessary for the story's flow. For the record, I won't write about anything I have no idea about.**

 **I'll remind you again to be a little patient with me. Unlike Cote, I _am_ Israeli, and English is _still_ not my mother tongue.**

 **Hebrew and Arabic terms in chapters- will be translated, or understood from the content.**

 **Please take your time to read and review.**

* * *

 **Scorched Earth**

* * *

 **Chapter 1:**

* * *

 **May 16** **th** **, 2016**

 **Yavni'el Valley, Israel**

 **3:19 AM**

Arthur grasps at his espresso cup tightly, while shooting the driver his most irritated glare.

"Dude," he growls, "Can't you be more careful? I wanna get home in one piece, thank you."

The vehicle shakes underneath them as they pass the next trail, but the driver doesn't slow down.

"Don't bitch about it, Arthur," he answers offhandedly, "I tried telling them about fixing this damn road, but as you can see…" they drive over another rock, and the seat jerks again with the bumps.

"Aw," Arthur mumbles, making a face, "But you shouldn't drive that fast anyway," he says, taking a fast sip from the warm liquid, "We don't want to miss anything."

The driver chuckles, "Don't worry. I've been keeping this town safe for the past 10 years, I know what I'm doing," his eyes are fixed on the left side of the trail, the car-lights marking the security fence to their west.

It was their patrol, tonight; Arthur didn't mind much. His wife was at her folks with the baby for the weekend, and he liked spending time with the guys. Oh, the weather wasn't ideal, and he had to have his fair share of caffeine, but other than that, no complains.

The job doesn't require much. Team 4 takes the night shifts, drives around the valley to make sure the security fence is untouched. Two weeks ago he head his one and only thrill on the job, as they discovered two meters of the fence disturbed. Turns out the rude intruder was a hungry red-fox, tracked down and released less than a day later.

His partner and Driver, Rodi, knew ever trail, every rock and ditch in the valley, and is still considered their most appreciated tracker and guard in the Galilea area. He'd trust the man with his life.

Even if he'll probably end up killing him with this crazy night-driving.

His thoughts are cut short as Rodi hits the breaks abruptly, making them both fly forward, Arthur feels the seatbelt crushing into his shoulder.

"What the hell, man?!" he all but yells, his pants now stained with leftover espresso, "Don't do that!"

"Shut up," he snaps at him, eyes fixed on a certain point to the left, and when Arthur is about to bark a juicy curse at him, Rodi points on a certain spot in the distance. "Look," he says, voice strong and stable.

It's hard to notice anything in the darkness at first, but following Rodi's finger, he finally sees it.

A large, wide hole in the fence. The wire is torn in places, and forced down in others.

"Two… maybe two and a half meters…" Rodi says, clicking his tongue in disapproval. He swings the car door open, "Grab your light," he says before exiting the car.

Arthur follows him out, and they both make their way to the fence. Checking over the spot, Arthur finds them soon enough. "Hey Rodi," he says, pointing with the flashlight at the ground, "Check this out."

The land is soft enough for them to make out the tracks easily. "Shoe prints," Arthur says, And Rodi nods, "I guess we can rule out the fox this time."

"Damnit!" Rodi snaps, digging his pocket for his Mirs, "How the hell did team 5 miss this?" he flips the small device open, pressing the green button, "Central, this is Rodi, over." He calls.

A short static noise is his answer, "Central! Rodi on team 4, you copy?" he repeats.

Another static, and then, "Team 4, this is central, over."

"I've got a 'Dark Knight C' on west." Rodi responds, eyes traveling around the field, "Repeat, 'Dark Knight C' on west! You copy?"

The static noise is heard again, and then, "Roger that, team 4. Are you sure level C of alert is required?"

"Positive, Central," Rodi answers immediately, "Shoe-prints found in break-in area. We've got a human intruder in town!" he then starts making fast steps to the south, when noticing the direction of the tracks. "Suspect headed south," Behind him, Arthur follows, "Our team in place."

A short pause, then "Follow procedure, team 4," Central responds, his voice fading, as he probably contacts his men on the other end, "All teams, we've got 'Dark Knight C' on west! I want closest teams in place. Repeat, we've got a positive 'Dark Knight' on west. Aaron, where the hell are you, man?" and at that, Central disconnects.

Fully alert now, Arthur follows Rodi's long steps. "Headed towards Shomrat," he says hoarsely, breathing in deep. The tracks are easy to follow in the ditch, but it doesn't make Rodi feel any better. They have no estimated time of break-in. This guy could by anywhere by now.

He comes to a halt abruptly. The lights of the faraway village can be seen through the hills. The thought of a possible intruder at the village is enough to make his screen crawl. "How many are there in Shomrat, Arthur?" he asks him slowly, his eyes fixed on some point in the distance.

"Five thousands, four hundred and twenty residents," Arthur responds.

Rodi inhales slowly, then said, voice shaking, "March 11th, 2011," he turns his head to look at his partner. Hearing that, Arthur tenses. His upper lip curls in a snarl, his eyes spark and palms clench into tight fists. "No need to remind you of that night," Rodi completes his sentence.

"No," Arthur spits, "No need."

They both remember that horrible night. It's been Arthur's only seconds week working as a civilian guard. They received a call of a possible security breach in one of the southern towns. Arthur's team was the first ti arrive at the scene, and he cursed that day ever since.

It was no security breach. It was a well-planned terror attack on a civilian house. A mother, a father… three of their children. All butchered mercilessly in their beds. A child… the surviving girl, hiding in the basement, holding her remaining living sibling close to her chest.

She hid her brother in one of the closets, constantly thrusting butter-cookies into his mouth to prevent him from calling their mother.

Arthur still remembers the haunted look in the girl's eyes, her cries when leaving the basement only to find her family slaughtered, blood covering every corner of the house.

"The attack originated in a torn fence, just like here," Rodi's voice invades his thoughts, "We can't have another one under our watch." His voice is dead serious.

No need to tell him twice.

Knowing the teams won't be here for another 5 minutes minimum, the two continue their hurried steps south, following the prints. After a minutes or so, a horrible smell invades their nostrils.

"Ah…" Arthur twists his face, "What the hell… it smells like rotten food in here."

Rodi, though, looks for something else. His eyes tour the ground urgently, and it's when he sees that. A tiny, unnatural hill to their left. "Hey, help me out here," he orders Arthur, kneeling on the ground.

Without question, Arthur joins him. As Rodi starts digging the wet, cold mud with his bare hands, Arthur digs in right after, ignoring the god-awful smell attacking him.

Seconds later, they both stop. "Wooahh," Arthur slowly says, leaning back, blinking at the finding.

Right next to them, lies a young man, all dark haired and beard, unmoving. His shoes hint of long walk, in his hand- a long kitchen knife. A further search leads them to the duffle bag. But it's empty for some reason.

Their terrorist, no doubt.

And his forehead is decorated with a perfectly round, deep bullet-wound.

"Ahh… I have a tiny feeling he won't be reaching Shomrat anytime soon…" Arthur says usefully.

Rodi gives him the stare.

* * *

 **Some hours later**

 **Neighbor of Abu-Kabir, Jaffa, Israel**

 **Early morning**

"Your puppy dog eyes will not help you, Reshef," Dr. Friedman mutters, only half-listening, flipping her folder open, signing two of the first documents, before closing the folder and placing it on the shelf ahead, "I'm too busy."

"Oh, Come on, Maya!" he all but whines, "This is serious business, I've got the chief all spitting fire over this! You've got to help me!"

"The answer is no… again. They already signed Ronna up for this, and…. Did you just stamp your foot?" she takes a good look at him, from top to bottom, "Tell me _you did not_ just stamp your foot. Only children do that, Reshef. And no… It's not my jurisdiction, or my place to get involved in." she's growing frustrated.

"What?" Reshef gasps, spreading his arms across the sterile room, "This is, or is it not The National Center of Forensic Medicine? Because that's what the sign at the entrance says …. If I parked my car at the wrong place, I'll got looking for the other forensic center, but I do hope they'll cover some of my parking-ticket costs, because parking prices in Tel Aviv are just pure ridicu-"

-"There's not need to be an asshole about it," Friedman interrupts, facing him, before turning to place another folder in its correct place, "You know perfectly well why I don't take the northern district's cases…."

Reshef's soldier sag in near defeat, "I know, I know," he said, "They screwed you over on the Nazareth murder case, but you're the best in the field, and…-"

"Screwed me over?" Dr. Friedman calls incredulously, "How about _butchered_ me, Reshef?" she approaches him, posture quite threatening considering her short frame, "They _completely_ disqualified my findings on the case! A direct result of your station's involvement!"

Reshef lowers his gaze, he knows he has no good comeback on that one. There was no naming to what his station, and the northern dispatch, did to the respectful doctor.

It was a case of 10 years in the making. A man was facing life sentence, but with no concrete evidence of him actually committing the crime. All circumstantial. The more they looked into it, the surer they were that the guy was wrongfully accused. Maya Friedman handed a report claiming the murder weapon was not one found in his possession. It was basically thrown out the window, along with her honor.

She faced both the prosecution's satisfaction, and the cruel scoff of the judge, when insisting on the accuracy of the findings. Let's just say, the word 'unprofessional' was the gentlest one they used.

"Tell me, _Sunshine_ ," she's basically in his face, it's really unsettling, "Can defensive wounds originated in a serrated knife come out of a Japanese blade?" she narrows her eyes a bit, "Just…" she spreads her arms dramatically, "Entertain me for a second…"

"No…" Reshef says in a small voice, "They cannot…"

"And why is that?" she blinks at him.

"Because Japanese knifes have flat blades." He rolls his eyes, feeling like a child being tested.

"Flat blades! Correct!" she points out, "Am I the only one seeing that!?"

She's still a bit sensitive about the old case. He can understand that, but… C'mon, this is ridiculous.

"I almost lost my _job_ over this, Reshef!"

Oh, and there's that. He forgot about that. And it pretty much ruined her promotion chances at the time. Funny, how that can piss people off. Huh.

He offers her a long look. "I'm…sorry?" he tries meekly.

The anger leaves her body along with the tension. She clicks her tongue, "Your commander sent an innocent man to life, Reshef." Her eyes convey deep sadness, "The fact that I got the long end of the stick is… meaningless."

"I know…" Reshef nods. He does.

"I hope he can live with that." She arches an eyebrow meaningfully.

He nods again.

"I've got my name and reputation back. It took long time and twice as much work as I used to, but… It turned out ok for me. I trust myself and my knowledge, but… I will not let that go. I hope Gideon knows that."

"He does…" Reshef responds, "And I'm sorry."

She sighs, "That's ok," she says after a pause, "You're a good cop, Reshef. And uncorrupted. Which I can't say about as many people as I used to, so… this favor is for you," she points at him, "Got it?"

He smiles wholeheartedly, "Got it."

"I'll tell Ronna I've got this…" she says, "So, what's the deal. Who's our victim?"

"A possible Palestinian terrorist."

She stares at him.

Still staring…

"You're _kidding_ , right?"

"No."

"A nationalist crime."

"Yep."

She chuckles humorlessly, "This just keeps getting better and better…" she turns back to him, "So…what's the story? The IDF is supposed to handle those kind of things. Or the PA. Or _anyone_ but me!"

"Yeeahh, I figures as much. So, here goes nothing. An intruder cut through the security fence of one of Yavni'el's towns," she nods at him, and he hands her a folder, "Obviously, it was an immediate code-red, so… they found him near the break-in spot, shot in the head, already in advance stages of decomposition, but we couldn't ID him, his fingerprints were burned, and…"

"Well, that's weird," Dr. Friedman frowns, opening up the folder, "Do they usually do that with their activists?"

"Not any terrorist organization what I'm familiar with… but it doesn't really matter, because in the last clashes, the majority of the attackers…"

"Were children, I know," she finishes his sentence, "I watch the news, too."

"Mhhmh."

"So where is he now?" she asks, closing the folder.

"At the northern clinics. They send him over in about 10 hours."

"I see." She pauses to think, "Still don't understand why you need me for this. The forensics up north can do a great job," the next statement is with a good taste of sarcasm, "When they're not framing people."

He ignores this somewhat childish remark, "The demand came from higher ranks," Reshef says, and before she can open her mouth he says, "Don't know, didn't ask. Besides, we have ourselves covered with the fire issue."

Oh, yes, she heard of that. Day and a half ago, a huge explosion shook the farmhouse of the former Mossad director, Eli David, killing his last living relative, and with that, wiping off the chain of a supposedly well respected family.

Needless to say, the incident became this week's topic, and the headache of many of Reshef's people.

She paused to think suddenly, "Hey, Reshef. Wasn't the family also leaving in Yavni'el's area?"

He frowns, "Well. Yeah. Actually, about 10 kilometers north-west of Shomrat."

"So… A Palestinian terrorist shot in the head. A mysterious explosion. I would say you've got yourself covered…" she turns to bring another file from the closet, "Tell Gideon I'll have your back on this one… but not for him, for you."

His smile broadens, "Thanks, Maya, I owe you." He then turns to leave.

"Yeah. Like I've never heard that one before."

* * *

 **May 19** **th** **, 2016**

 **'The Mossad' headquarters,**

 **Tel Aviv, Israel**

 **10:28 AM**

"Ma'am, your guest has arrived," her assistant calls to inform.

"Let him in, Na'omi."

Chief Director of The Top Israeli Institute of Special Operations, Ms. Orli Elbaz, leaned back in her chair, in patience. As her special guest entered the office, she offered him a mysterious smile.

"Good afternoon, ma'am," he shakes his head respectfully, accent still present after nearly 8 years at the states. "Always a pleasure."

That's a lie. The main thought of her presence, not to mention- seeing her in the flesh, makes him deeply nervous. She sees that.

There's fear in his eyes. She sees that, too. Those deep, brown eyes, have the same look of fear in them just like 12 years ago, when he was first brought to their custody.

But she won't mention it. Diplomacy…always.

"You look... different," she says slowly, "But I guess, that should be expected. How's the family?"

"Fine, thank you, ma'am."

"Good," she says slowly, gesturing for him to sit in front of her, and he obliges.

"I'd love to catch up more, but as you probably well know, we've just went through a horrible ordeal, and lost one of our best in process," she leans forward on her desk, "So let us go straight to the point… Did you get the job done?"

The man smiles at her, "Did I ever disappoint you, ma'am?"

She smiles in satisfaction, "Never, and I trust it will stay that way."

"I expect you to trust me, Madam Director," he emphasizes.

She chuckles at that, "You're a Palestinian terrorist, and I gave you full access to the daughter of Eli David. You think we need to talk more about trust?"

The man hums.

"I guess you also took a flight to Washington, to express your shock and sorrow to David's little friends at the NCIS?"

"Of course, that goes without saying." She says offhandedly.

"The child?" he keeps asking.

"At the moment, with her father. That's not going to be an issue with him or the NCIS."

"Did they suspect anything?"

"Is there really a need to ask such a question?" she arches one perfect eyebrow.

"Of course not," her guest lowers his gaze, "Forgive me, I forgot my place."

"Make sure it doesn't happen again," she says shortly.

He nods, then rises from his chair, "At any case, I filled my end of the deal. I trust you do the same?"

"I'm a woman of honor," she shakes her head. "Ziva David is dead and buried, and you'll get your payment soon enough."

"Of course," he says, then turns to leave.

"Oh, one more thing…" she calls, and he turns back to her, "In case you hear a word on the street regarding the, uh… _event_ … I trust your full cooperation with us?"

He considers a moment, but then nods, "Count me in," he replies.

"Excellent," she says slowly, "Always a pleasure doing business with you, Yusuf."

He takes that as his cue to leave.

She leans back in her chair, considering. Staring at the far picture on the wall in front, she mumbles to herself, " _B'ein tachbulot yipol am, Veteshua berov yo'etz_ …*"

* * *

 **The National Center of Forensic Medicine**

 **Neighbor of Abu-Kabir, Jaffa, Israel**

 **Evening**

Dr. Maya Friedman rubbed her tired eyes momentarily, before turning to focus on the file at hand.

Reshef brought in the remains earlier today. She didn't have much to work with, but after a struggle, she succeeded and pulling off some DNA and tissues from the man.

As she passed on the file, she had to admit her curiosity picked. The bullet wound is not something she got to see every day in shooting victims, but she'll have no problem on working with that.

She picks up the phone to call Reshef.

"Do you have anything for me, Sugarcube?" he asks. "Something doesn't add up in the fire case, so I really am in need of a silver lining, here."

"I should get more information regarding the identity of your victim, but I can tell you this. Your murder weapon is an AK-47."

A short pause, then, "Are you sure?"

"Didn't you say I was the best and how you trust my forensic skills? _Yes_ , I'm sure. It's a Kalashnikov."

"Well, that can't be right." He sounds confused, "We believed it was one of our guards, or a soldier to shoot this guy down, but… When was the last time you heard of an In Israeli soldier shooting someone with an AK?"

She blinks, "Ah…. The 50s, maybe?"

"Try never. We don't have those here."

"Which is why I specified things even more for you, Reshef. You should let me finish my sentences, sometimes. This weapon was homemade. From the looks of it, probably Ramallah or Hebron."

"Then how did it get into our guy's head?" he wonders aloud.

"Beats me. You're the cop. Figure it out."

He sighs, and mumbles something like "This sucks," to her. That's when Maya's intern enters the room, "I've got result on victim's ID," the young girl says cheerfully, handing her a file.

"Oh, good," she says, going over it, "You hear, Reshef?"

"Loud and clear," exhaustion and relief both evident in his voice.

"We've got a match on our John Doe in the system," she talks loudly to the speaker, "His name is Ghazi Farsoun. 31 year old from Nablus. Based on lividity and decomposition, I estimate time of death about 70-75 hours ago."

"Can you be more specific?" he urges.

She thinks, before responding, "May 16th…somewhere between Midnight, and 2 AM."

"Thanks, Maya. You're the best." He says, then hangs up.

"And don't you dare say otherwise."

* * *

 **TBC.**

* * *

 **A/N- Expect the plot to intensify from here. Tell me what you think**

 *** "For without subterfuge, shall a nation fall... and in the multitude of counsellors there is safety."-**

 **This is Taken from Proverbs, chapter 11, and is also known as 'The Mossad's motto.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N-** **Many thanks to those who support and review. Chapter 2 ahead.**

* * *

 **Scorched Earth**

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

 **May 21** **st** **, 2016**

 **Flight LY8515, Washington DC to Tel Aviv**

 **Somewhere above the Mediterranean Sea**

 **Morning**

Tony DiNozzo stirs up to the feeling of something small and wet, tapping his cheek repeatedly.

Now that's a first.

He dares to open one eye, then the other, only to face another pair of dark, round orbs looking at him playfully. A child's small hand is the one tapping his face.

A small giggle, and then… "Abba!"

A pang of both affection and heartbreak hits his chest abruptly. "Hey, Tali," he mumbles sleepily, rubbing at his eyes. He must have dozed off about an hour ago, while Tali occupied herself with one of her stuffed animals.

He's happy to notice that the girl is a very comfortable traveler; only once during the journey she made a fuss, and that was due to nature's call (His daughter was perfectly potty-trained, _thank you, Ziva_ ). He had to hold down a chuckle when the baby at the seat behind them started wailing, and instead of joining in like some children would do, Tali just pressed both fingers to her ears and pouted.

Right now, she lets go of her 'Elsa' doll to glare at him, tilting her head adorably. _"Sefer?"_ she mumbled quizzically.מה אפש

He blinks at her.

 _Shit_. He has no idea what she wants. Or needs.

Ah. This is one of the many moments in the last few days he feels like screaming. He should have tried mastering Hebrew at the time. How can he be a good father when he can't even understand what his daughter is saying?

"Sefer?" she tries again.

What does it mean, what does it mean?

'The bag', he thinks, 'Let's try the bag'.

Reaching between his legs, he pulls up the child's bag, hoping against hope that there lies the answer. He must be right, as her enthusiasm increases when he digs inside. Her mother's scarf…no. Wipes…no. Another stuffed teddy-bear… she shakes her head 'No'…. a children's book…N-

"Sefer!" she squeals, reaching for it.

Oh, goodie. _Sefer_.

"Your book?" he inquires, and she nods.

Sefer. That's a one he'll have to remember.

He flips the book open, to see it's a small animals' book. Tali loves animals.

Cuddling next to him, she rests her head on his arm, finding comfort in him. Blinking, he releases himself to rest his arm on her shoulder.

Will he ever get used to it?

The girl focuses on the book, and laughs at the cartoon pictures. One page shows an elephant with a funny looking hat, waving his trunk all over the place. Tali giggles in delight, pointing at the drawing.

"You like elephants, Tali?" Tony asks his joyous daughter.

The toddler grins at him, "Pil!" she says, nodding once. At his questioning glare, she points at the page again and repeats, "Pil!"

Ah. _Pil_. Of course.

"That's an elephant, Tali," he responds, and she shakes her head, "Can you say 'Elephant' for daddy?"

"Pil!" she insists.

He sighs. A one syllable word is much easier to pronounce than a complicated one, he gets it. But unless he starts teaching her the basics of the English vocabulary, they'll never be able to communicate.

"Try slowly," he encourages her. "E-le-phant."

She follows his speech, staring at his lips. "E..lle…" she starts meekly.

"-Phant."

"Phhant." The girl finishes.

Tony beams, "Very good, Tali," He praises, then flips over another page. The next picture is of a monkey chewing on a banana, hidden among the tree branches. "Koff!" Tali declares happily before her father says a word.

He chuckles, "Well, yes. That's a monkey. Now say it… 'Mon-key'. Monkey."

"Monkey!" she calls aloud, spreading her arms in victory.

He tickles her tummy in response, and her bursting laugh is like music to his ears. They pass another half hour like this, learning the names of each animal in English. At some point, though, she loses interest, and prefers to look out the window, the bright white of clouds soothing her.

The silence allows him to think. How he got here, he wonders. Just a few days ago, his life was in order and he knew what to expect once waking up to face another day. And now, in a matter of few hours, he lost his love, and was gifted with the life they've created.

Shooting down Kort wasn't as climatic and satisfying as he thought it would be. What's the point, it won't bring her back. Yes, the thirst for vengeance was quenched, justice was made. But the loss will forever burn his bones, make his chest ache with yearning and anguish. Thousands bullets in Kort's body wouldn't have changed that undeniable truth.

Then, there's the confusion. The deep feeling in the pit of his gut, that's there's something fishy about this whole thing. Oh, perhaps it's just his desperate, hoping heart, trying to find holes in the plot to make this any easier on his heart, but he learned long ago to not ignore his instincts.

 _'Never believe in what you're told. Double-check'._

Rule 3.

Pulling a small wrinkled piece of paper from his jeans-pocket, he memorizes the phone number again. As soon as they land, he'll start the quest of finding answers.

He must.

If not for him, then for his daughter.

* * *

 **May 21** **st** **, 2016**

 **Northern Nablus, the Palestinian authority**

 **Late afternoon**

The front door swings open, and the man makes his way towards the kitchen. As he passes the corridor, he notices them both. His friend and partner, Sa'eed Muhammad, sits comfortable in front of the kitchen table, sipping on a boiled, Bedouin tea.

The wife is busy washing the Taboon-plate in the sink.

Sa'eed notices him first, and nods once in acknowledgement. " _Assalamu Aleikum, ya Fa'id,_ " he greets, " _Ka'ifa al-ha'al_?"

"Bad," Fa'id snarls, but keeps himself polite infront of the wife, who notices him, and shakes her head in greeting. "You've got any more of this?" he gestures towards the warm tea.

"Mhmm," Sa'eed hums, then calls to his wife, " _Ya Aisha_ , some tea for Fa'id, please."

They hear the wife opening one of the upper cabinet, looking for a small glass, before reaching for the kettle again. Fa'id takes his seat next to his friend, and the one smiles at him from behind the glass, "Any of my boys giving you hard time?" he tries the small talk.

Fa'id makes a face. "Besides still accusing me of going after Huda?" he snaps, "It could have easily ended differently the other day, you know. Need I remind you, what happened the last time your boys went physical on me? My father nearly set your garage on fire."

"Eh," Sa'eed brushes it off, as if nothing, "I talked to Huda," he says slowly. "She promised me it was all just a big misunderstanding. And I know my daughter like the back of my hand, she's a terrible liar. If anything happened between the two of you, it would have been impossible to hide, I'm sure."

"So why are your sons still after me?" Fa'id doesn't find this amusing.

Sa'eed laughs shortly, but his guest is lest amused. "They're young. And they feel brave protecting their sister like this."

Aisha places the warm tea on the table, and Fa'id smiles at the old woman, " _Shukran_ , _Um-Huda_ *." He thanks her shortly, before growling at his host, "They 'feel brave'? They should go face the hill soldiers, see how brave they are then."

Sa'eed shakes his head disapprovingly. There's no need to be rude about it, either.

"At any case, I'm not here to talk about this. I'm here about the, uh… _other thing_." He gives Sa'eed his most meaningful look.

His host catches on that. "Aisha, leave us, please." He soothingly requests.

His wife must realize it is one of the 'occasions' in which her husband talks about issues she better not involve herself in, and she wordlessly leaves the room, the unwashed dishes still in the sink.

Sa'eed goes straight to the point as soon as she exists the kitchen, "Did Marzok contact anyone, yet?" he asks.

Fa'id shakes his head, "No," he says, "I'm afraid we lost him. Either he backed off, or the soldiers got him."

"Allah break their bones," Sa'eed grunts, "So what do we do now?"

"Wait for decisions to be made, I guess," he replies. "Our main obstacle was removed, though," he tries to look at the positive. "Eli David's daughter is dead. I say good riddance."

"By one of ours?" Sa'eed inquires.

"Hopefully. We need to keep the plan going. No way will they back off, now."

Sa'eed agrees. Though one thing keeps bugging him. "What about the files? They got them back?"

Fa'id pauses to think, before replying, "I guess they did. Or they would have sent us on a retrieve mission. What's important for us to know is, can we trust your assistance?"

"Of course you can," Sa'eed responds without hesitation.

Fa'id leans back in his chair, "I heard that Cairo is lively and warm this time of year," he ponders, checking his scratched fingers, "Feel like going on a trip there, soon?" he smiles, "heard it's going to be _a blast_."

Sa'eed laughs at the pun. "Oh, yes, of course," he raises a glass, then, "Shall we make a toast?" he asks.

Fa'id raises his own glass, "To 'The _Mijahideen'_ ," he calls.

Sa'eed nods and answers, " _Al-Nasr amma Al-Istishhad_.**"

* * *

 **May 21** **st** **, 2016**

 **Kiryat Shalom neighborhood, Tel Aviv, Israel**

 **4:37 PM**

As soon as they landed at Ben-Gurion airport, after passing passport control and customs, Tony and Tali made their way north-west, taking a short way through route-1, towards Tel Aviv.

The baby fell asleep in his arms half hour before landing, and didn't wake until he settled her in the car. A 20 minutes' drive towards Tel Aviv, they checked in at the Dan Hotel, only to leave the room soon after.

It's not ideal, carrying an infant around for these kind of visits, but he has no better solution for her at this point.

Kiryat Shalom is a quiet neighborhood in southern Tel Aviv, and as Tali plays at the back-seat of their rented car, Tony follows his 'Waze' instructions, navigating towards Hatikva St.

It's a renovated building, and well maintained one. He finds a free parking space right next to it, and as they come to a halt, Tali ceases from playing, to look curiously out the window.

Tony exists the car, turning off the application, not before hearing the mechanic woman reminding him- _'Driving mode turned off, don't forget child in vehicle'._

Yeah, well, that's not gonna happen.

He opens the back-seat, to release Tali from the booster, and picks her up in his arms. They make their way towards the building's entrance, looking for the address.

"Apartment number 3…" Tony mumbles, and looking at Tali, he tickles her momentarily, earning a belly-button laugh, "You be good, now, ok?" he asks, "We'll be out of here before you know it."

They take the stairs, Apartment number 3 is easy enough to find. Tony presses the intercom, and soon enough, " _Ken_?" a young woman's voice asks.

"I'm here to see Mr. George…?" Tony replies politely in English.

"Name, please?" she asks, accent well felt.

"DiNozzo, Anthony."

"Just a minute, Sir."

After a short pause, the intercom buzzes to life again, "Yes, Mr. DiNozzo," the secretary says, "Mr. George will see you know." Another buzz, and the door opens.

It's a somewhat dark office, but well taken-care of. The secretary is a beautiful woman with very dark hair and deep, emerald eyes.

"Hello," she greets him seriously, though her eyes soften as she takes her first look of Tali, "Hi, there, to you too, Sweetie," she looks back at Tony, "I'm sorry, Mr. DiNozzo, but children are not allowed in Mr. George's office…"

Tony blinks with confusion. While he can understand the reasoning behind it, he really has no place to take her. Clued in, the secretary comes to the rescue, "You can leave her here with me, I'll take good care of her."

Tony hesitates, "I'm not sure… she's quite active, and you probably have a lot of work to do…."

"Oh, nonsense," she brushes it off, already reaching for the girl, "I love children, and I've got most of my daily paperwork covered, anyway," Tali seems to like her enough, as she spreads her tiny arms, not minding at all to be held by feminine arms.

Tony is relieved, "Thank you for this, Ms…."

"Shelly. Just Shelly."

"Shelly, then, thank you."

"No problem," she says wholeheartedly, "What's your name, little one?" she asks.

"It's Tali," DiNozzo replies, before turning to the hallway, "Which way is…?"

"Oh," Shelly replies, "It's the first one on the left."

"Thanks," Tony says, before making his way towards said office, hearing as Shelly offers his daughter to play with her.

He knocks on the wooden door once, hearing a mumbled response of approval. Slowly, Tony enters the office, to be faced with a short, serious looking man. The man is tapping on his computer idly, but as soon as noticing him, he offers Tony his full attention.

"Mr. DiNozzo, yes?" he only half asks.

Standing at the doorway, still, Tony nods. "Well, come in, come in, please," the man calls, welcoming him, and Tony nods, taking his seat infront of the desk.

"Water? Black coffee?" Mr. George asks.

"No, thank you."

Tony takes a moment to check the man's vibe. His hair cut neatly and short, growing white in certain places. His eyes deep as the ocean itself, and though he seems welcoming, Tony is well familiar with certain behaviors to realize it's a certain façade.

It's recognizable in his speech, his movement. Tony's on alert.

"Alright," Mr. George replies. Pressing the button on his screen, he turns to his guest. "So let's get straight to the point," he leans forward, all small-talk gone, "What problem is that brings an American government agent to my doorstep?"

Tony clears his throat, "The fire at Eli David's farmhouse," he says slowly.

"Ah…" Mr. George replies, "A sad, sad turn of events that was, don't you think?" he asks, "But why would a simple government agent, not one of our own, even, be interested in 'The Mossad's loses?" he's tapping his chin curiously.

Tony hesitates. Should he lay all cards on the table? It's dangerous… but then again, if he's going to use this man's help, he needs to gain his trust and cooperation.

"His daughter… Ziva David," Tony pauses before letting in, "She's the mother of my child."

Something clears in the man's face. Tony can't say if it takes him by surprise or not, but if it does, it's unnoticed. "Ah-Huh." He says, considering.

"They said on the news it was a mortar-rocket launched by some random terror organization that took the house down, killing Ziva. We know from a case we worked on it was an ass-cover operation, orchestrated by a traitor called Trent Kort."

Leaning back in his chair, George listens carefully, before concluding, "And you don't believe that."

Tony takes a moment to think, before answering, "I learned long ago to trust my gut. And my gut says there's something more going on here."

"Which is why you contacted me," Mr. George says. It's not a question.

"Let's just say, you've earned a respectable reputation," Tony says slowly, waiting for George's response.

"I'm a private investigator, not a miracle worker, Mr. DiNozzo," Mr. George claims, "'The Mossad' holds Israel's darkest secrets within its grasp. A private investigator sniffing around their territory, is like a rabbit mocking a famished lion." He reasons.

"I heard you're willing to cross some burned roads to get the job done," Tony insists, "At least, that's what your contacts say. Are they wrong?" he arches and eyebrow.

Slowly, Mr. George rises to stand, turning to face the open window, gazing lazily outside.

"April 22nd, 1979," he takes a stroll down memory lane, "Four Hezbollah activists, one of them just a boy, invade our shores from southern Lebanon, killing an American tourist and Butchering a father in-front of his little girl's eyes, before killing her as well." Tony purses his lips at that, for a second, it's just him and Tali on that beach. "That operation was pulled off due to one man's initiative. His name was _Durkhan_."

Turning away from the window to face Tony again, he continues, "I was a Shabbak investigator," At Tony's questioning gaze, he replies, "What you Americans call the 'Shin-Bet'," Tony nods at that. "The IDF captured Durkhan months following the attack, handed him over to me…"

Tony listens carefully, "The investigation took the whole-lot of 4 and a half days. At the end of it all, we had a full list of commandments, activists, and operations in wait for a green-light. Hezbollah lost one of its greatest assets at the time…" he sits back in-front of Tony, "Durkhan was instructed to refer to me as 'Captain George…' it was his breaking point that brought me this nickname," he chuckles, but then turns serious in a second, frowning.

"Do you know what 'Mossad' means in Hebrew, Mr. DiNozzo?" he asks carefully.

Tony shakes his head 'No'.

" _A madhouse_ ," George clarifies in emphasis. "Quite fitting, no?" he ponders. "The Mossad is not the Shin-Bet, Boy. They invent their own game, and they don't like it when others play it on their level…" he offers a fair warning, "They're protective of their own, and don't tend to share knowledge with other players…. And frankly, boy, I'd rather deal with 10 more _Durkhan_ s than with one Orli Elbaz. She's relentless."

Tony seriously hopes this trip wasn't a total waste of time. He needs to get to the bottom of this, and soon.

George releases a long sigh. Tony doesn't dare say anything.

"However…" the PI continues, "I do have contacts within 'The Mossad' and police. And I don't tend to back away from a good challenge." He hums softly.

Tony's heart-rate escalates. "So, is that a yes?" he asks.

George stares at him, like trying to solve a riddle, "I can't promise anything, and you should be prepared to face the worse, but…-"

"-…But?"

Clicking his tongue, George responds, "I'll ask around, and see what I can do."

That's all Tony hopes for.

* * *

 **TBC**

* * *

 **A/N- That was chapter 2. Chapter 3 will be updated sooner than later. Please leave your thoughts.**

 *** In Arabic culture, it's common that parents are named after their children, and vice versa. Aisha is mother of Huda Muhammad, and therefore refered to, as "Um-Huda", "-Mother of- Huda"**

 **** In Arabic, translates as- 'Victory or Martyrdom'.**


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N**_ **\- Hi, so, it's me again. This chapter is going to be a bit shorter than the usual, due to time shortage, I didn't want to leave you guys waiting… The one following it should be up in a matter of few days. Hopefully this chapter's ending will be good enough to keep you waiting for the next one.**

 **Some events and characters in the story are in need of exploring further, so I'll take the time to explain. Most of them are inspired by real people (However, as the story flaws, it's important to emphasize that any connection between said characters and the people who inspire them is pure coincidence), and some are pure fictional.**

 **'Inspector Yekutiel (Kuti) Reshef** **': A policeman of the Northern District of Israel. We'll meet him again in the story.**

 **'Dr. Maya Friedman'** **: Forensic expert and Chief Pathologist of 'The National Center of Forensic Medicine' in Abu-Kabir neighborhood in Jaffa, Israel. Like Kuti Reshef, we'll meet her again in following chapters. Her character is based on Dr. Maya Furman-Reznick, a true-life forensic expert in Israel, who've been a source of both appreciation and conflicts in the top Israeli legal system.**

 **'P.I George Cohen'** **\- A private investigator with high security clearance, and contacts in both 'The Mossad' and Shin-Bet. Retired from the Shin-Bet after certain conflicts with the government. Inspiration for his character is Yaron Zahavi, AKA 'Captain George', who was a top interrogator of Hezbollah terrorists.**

* * *

Scorched Earth

* * *

Chapter 3

* * *

 **NCIS Building**

 **Squad Room**

 **9:19 AM**

Blinking fiercely, Timothy McGee tries not to stare.

Which proves to be quite a mission.

The chewing sounds from the table next to him drive him crazy, at the point of losing it, but he gracefully keeps quiet.

He narrows his eyes at the new team-player, or not so much, to try and focus on his own work. He can't deal with this right now, when-

"McGee."

He nearly jumps out of his own skin. "Gee! Bishop!" he tries keeping his voice down, "Give the man a warning, will you? And when did you become so stealthy?"

Eleanor shrugs, leaning on his desk, "So, are you going to be the bad guy, or is it my turn?" she asks, making a face.

He squints, "Turn at what?" the question seems redundant to the outside observer.

She makes a 'Well, Duh,' face, before looking at their new member, who seems busy typing at his computer, now.

"Oh. You mean, him," McGee tilts his head leftways, "Ah, I guess Wells is not so bad…"

"Not so bad, McGee?" Bishop lowers her tone to a whisper, a very loud one at that, "I can't concentrate on anything while he's around." She frowns, "When it's not potato chips, it's carrot-tops, and when it's not carrot-tops, it's…."

"It was actually cheese-sticks, today, Bishop. Oh look, he's done eating. Back to work, then."

She sighs, "It's not just his strange eating habits, McGee, and I overlooked at the fact that he's speaking with his mouth full, but… I don't know. This guy is very strange..."

On that he can agree. While Patrick Wells is experienced on the field, he came with his own recommendations and Gibbs seems to trust him, the guy is still greener than grass on their team, and McGee's not yet used to be anything less than the 'probie'.

It'll take some time.

Wells chooses this second to lift hid head from behind the computer screen and offer them both a grin.

Eleanor rolls her eyes.

Wells flinches as Gibbs whooshes into the squad-room, all businesslike, "Grab your gear," he calls, "Petty Officer down in Quantico."

* * *

 **Northern District police building**

 **Nazareth Illit, Israel**

 **1:43 PM**

Inspector Yekutiel Reshef considers himself a man of honor, and a damn good cop. Since his days as constable, he believed in the system, the fairness and dignity it represents.

But for days now, he questions everything he believed in since…well, ever.

The fire at Eli David's farmhouse was both every cop's dream and nightmare. Such a case, which started out as an accident, only to turn out as suspected terrorist attack- Is career maker for young cops.

They've been investigating this incident for the last 5 days, trying to figure out which terror organization is behind it. His Supervisor, Yerahmiel Natan, was breathing down his neck, demanding updates on this case. Like he doesn't have his own headache to deal with.

Speaking of the devil…

"Yo, Reshef!" The old man's thundering voice is heard across the hallway.

Well, _shit_.

Natan makes his way towards his office, his fattened figure menacing, as usual, "Tell me you've got something on the David's fire incident," his frustrated voice does nothing to improve Reshef's mood.

"Not yet, Natan," Reshef shrugs with languishment, "I'm still waiting for Miriam's update on the forensic findings."

"Oh, is that it?" Natan growls, obviously expecting a better answer, "I thought you handed that one to Friedman. She's a lot quicker than Miriam."

"She's busy with the other issue, Natan. The Farsoun case? You demanded her full attention on that one. Now I can call her and tell her that…-"

"No, no no!" Natan raises a hand to stop him, "Don't do that. We need the Farsoun case out of our hair." his eyes widen in emphasis.

Reshef's lip stretches upward in a chuckle. It's not hard to guess why the sudden hurry on that case, "The PA representative called you, didn't he?" he scoffs at his superior.

Natan snorts in response, "They want the body to be delivered to them ASAP," he sneers, "Fact that we need it for an investigation is not well received on the other end."

Reshef should have expected it. "I'll check up on Miriam. But if she starts eating my brain out over this, it's your call."

"Duly noted," Natan answers dryly. "As for the David case, did anybody let you in the loop?"

"Not even close," Reshef grunts, "I called she Shabbak, the AMAN guy who used to work for me, they all say to go 'with the printers'. Nothing more, nothing less."

"Need to know basis," Natan answers, clicking his tongue.

"And we're just cops, so we're not in on it. Whatever 'it' is. But I don't get it, I mean, The MDA and ZAKA are reporting directly to us, so what's the big deal of trying to keep anything a secret?"

Natan gives him a long look, "MDA doesn't report to us anymore, Reshef. They're under the supervision of AMAN on this case."

 _The rescue forces under the supervision of the military intelligence? What the hell for?!_

"So let me get this straight," Reshef says slowly, "We're supposed to inform AMAN on any findings and results we get, but they're not gonna tell us what we're dealing with."

Natan purses his lips, "Sums it up," he emits.

Reshef blinks. "I don't like it."

"Me neither, boy."

The supervisor pauses to think, "And one could guess they are supervised by 'The Rain-Men'?" he arches an eyebrow.

'The Rain-Men' are how the combatants used to call The Mossad operatives, Natan recalls, and offers a small nod.

"Yep," Reshef exhales, "Just like I thought," and after a short pause, he suggests, "I'll try dig into it further, but your sources are as good as mine. And I guess that the Media has already this thing figured out, so it's easier to "control the flame…"" he blinks, "Pun intended."

"Well, I don't trust the media," Natan huffs, "And I don't like the feeling of people playing me. Let it be the Shin-Bet, The Mossad, the fuckin' queen of England. We were first at the scene, we're getting to the bottom of it. Am I making myself clear?"

"Crystal, Sir."

* * *

 **May 22** **nd** **, 2016**

 **Hatikva St, Kiryat Shalom Neighborhood, Tel Aviv, Israel**

 **Captain George's office**

As soon as Shelly informs him of his caller's identity, he shuts the door closed, urging her to pass him the call at once.

"Miriam!" George Cohen greets enthusiastically, "I was wondering when I'll be hearing from you."

Miriam Buzaglo's voice is raspy, "Well, always glad to oblige, George," the uneven tone of her voice puts him on edge, "But we have a problem."

He rises from behind his desk slowly, "What is it, Buzaglo?" he asks cautiously.

"It's about the David farmhouse fire," she says, voice a bit shaky, which is quite uncharacteristic. Miriam Buzaglo is a tough cookie, has been one of his most appreciated sources, young, pretending to be green as fuck, which only helped her cause on the long run. Buzaglo doesn't get scared out. Unless…

"I'm on HaShalom Rd, next to Azrieli. Many people around, It's not safe to talk here," she gasps, "How soon can I drop by?"

"Anytime. I'm in my office," he replies carefully.

"Be there in thirty."

* * *

 **May 22** **nd** **, 2016**

 **Hatikva St, Kiryat Shalom Neighborhood, Tel Aviv, Israel**

 **Captain George's office**

 **-Later-**

She flies into the office like a tornado, sinking at the chair, breathing heavily. Nodding at her, Captain George approaches to the small refrigerator at the corner to pull out a bottle of water, offering it to her.

"Thanks," she takes it, before tossing some files on the desk.

"I trust you've got something for me?" That's George Cohen for you, always to the point.

"Yes," Miriam is on needles in her seat, "It took a lot of time and effort, and I broke approximately 50 criminal laws while getting this information, but…"

"-Miriam?" It's important that she stays focused.

" _Right_ ," she says sternly, before continuing, "So, my CSU guy just called me, regarding that mortar shell the found at the crime scene. It was made out of recycled metal, George. One of very poor quality. Not only that," she points at a certain point at the file, "but the active flammable material was about 0.4. Hell, I wouldn't have even start a bonfire with that little firepower."

George frowns, "But… this can't be right," he blinks, honestly confused, "The damage this mortar-shell left on the farmhouse was unquestionable. We've seen the destruction… the firefighters took hours putting it out." Not to mention, he'd been in previous mortar-shell bombings. He is well familiar with the chaos those leave behind.

"Which brings me to the other findings," her enthusiasm only increases at that. "At the main livingroom… or at least, what used to be the livingroom, we located traces of RDX, along with different plastic materials."

His eyes widen and he snatches the files from her hand, double checking, "There was C4 in the house?!"

"Oh, and it gets better," she nods with self-importance, "We also succeeded locating traces of triacetone triperoxide at the crime scene."

This takes him by total surprise, "peroxyacetone…" he mumbles, "Isn't this a primary explosive material?"

"Very good," she approves, "It's very sensitive to heat, and therefor very common among terror organizations in our area. All you need is a spark, and 'Whaamo!' all over," she gestures with her hands an explosion-movement, "But here's the kicker. We also located coolant traces at the house, which means, someone wanted the bomb to go off on very specific timing," she emphasizes, "And if that's not enough for you, we also came to the conclusion that this explosive was manually operated."

Miriam waits for the other shoe to drop, and she concludes at his shocked and puzzled stare, "George, Eli David's farmhouse wasn't attacked by mortar-fire. The explosion originated in one of the rooms. Whatever _this_ is… It was an inside job."

* * *

 **Till Next time, folks!:)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Scorched Earth**

 **Chapter 4**

* * *

 **May 22** **nd** **, 2016**

 **Marine Corps base Quantico**

 **11:19 AM**

Team Gibbs scans the scene in front of them. Quite gruesome, they have to admit. Their petty officer lies in a pool of his own blood, bruises cover the visible parts of his body. He's still in his uniform, lies helplessly on the sidewalk, in this apparently quiet part of Quantico.

Well, this going to give this neighborhood a bad name.

"What do we have here, McGee?" Gibbs inquires flatly.

Kneeling next to the body, Tim takes his first curious look at their man-down, while Ellie takes pictures and Wells tries not to step on anybody's toes. It's a young man, Mid-twenties if he had to guess, with dark hair and tanned body. Grabbing on his left hand, McGee checks for the fingerprints match in the system.

"Well?"

Standing up, he pulls on his cap, "This is Petty Officer Abdullah Farah, 27," he finally says. Bishop titles her head, "Middle Eastern," she says the obvious.

Tim nods, "Egyptian born," he answers.

"Ducky?" Gibbs asks, turning to the Medical Examiner.

"Well, if this isn't just a sad, sad sight to the eyes, my boy," the pathologist says melancholically as he examines the body, "Cause of death seems to be a gunshot wound to the sternum," he points at the man's bleeding chest, "Lividity suggests that some of those bruises," he points at a several on his arms, "happened post-mortem," he exhales somewhat dramatically, "This seems to be a classic execution… but any further examination will have to wait until we deliver him to the morgue," a pause and then, "My bag, if you please, Mr. Palmer."

"Right away, Doctor Mallard," the young man replies.

Hovering over them, stands Gibbs, who seems like deep in thoughts; Ellie snaps some more photos.

This is going to be a long day.

* * *

 **May 22nd**

 **'The Train' Neighborhood, Tel Aviv, Israel**

 **Late night**

Miriam knew the moment she crossed Florentine neighborhood into this one, that it was a bad mistake choosing this shortcut. Holding the casefile close to her chest, she quickens her footsteps, trying not to think about all the druggies and robbers waiting to pounce. Seriously, what was she thinking? In her classic getup and expensive shoes, she stands up like a hooker in a synagogue.

The only noise at this hour is the echo of her clicking hills, going faster by the minute. Crossing the road, a deep stench of urine and smoke hits her abruptly, and she has to fight the nausea.

Glancing around, she takes in the almost collapsing buildings of old people who cannot afford anything better and further down the road, the part inhabited by African refugees who chose to dwell in this part of southern Tel Aviv, looking for better lives than in Darfur or Sudan. This neighborhood is infamous for being neglected and dangerous, and the last thing she needs is to become fresh pray of a robber or rapist, while holding onto a very valuable casefile.

The noise of a screeching tire breaks through the silent night, forcing Miriam to come into a sudden halt, and turn around.

From north-west, a dark sedan speeds down the road, right towards her direction, slowing down when nearing her.

Her heartbeat quickens, and she can only mumble "Uh-Oh" before two dark figures, their heads covered with ski-masks, spring forth from the car, pouncing at her.

One of them grabs her from behind, their hand, covered in black leather gloves, grasps at her neck in near-strangulation attempt, while the second guy tries to snatch her casefile.

'The casefile'! She thinks. There's no way of her letting them have it. The information it holds is way too valuable and classified.

"No," she's trying to protest, but the grip of the one holding her prevents any further struggling, and with a quick move, the second creep takes hold of her case.

That's when she hears the sweet voice of the one holding her back. A gentile, sickening voice of a young woman, "Stay put, Miriam," she whispers… "We have no issue with you… We'll take what we came in here for, and leave."

The bitch knows her name, huh? Well, that's hardly reassuring, and she's not going down without a fight. Reaching back, trying to force her arm away, she realizes it's like trying to bend metal. The woman is slander, but has amazing strength, and she knows what she's doing.

She's again trying to free herself, and a searing pain in her leg takes her by surprise. She has no idea how this happened, but she's suddenly face-down on the sidewalk, glancing up to notice them hovering over her.

"If you're going to kill me, just do it," she says, shutting her eyes closed, trying to hold back a scream of pain.

The other dirtbag tilts his head at her, almost curiously; "Don't look for us, or this," his voice is hoarse and deep as he gestures towards the casefile, now in his hold, "You'd be better off, forgetting what happened here tonight. Tell your boss that Ziva David is dead, and that is all he needs to know."

He backs away towards the car, and Miriam, still laid down on the sidewalk, tries to slowly move, her body still not fully cooperative. The woman, though, she waits a second longer, Miriam not sure for what reason.

But then she speaks, "A war is about to break out, Sister," she tells her hurriedly, "Make sure you're well sheltered once it does." With that, she joined her partner.

And before Miriam knows it, they're both gone.

* * *

 **Marine Corps base Quantico**

 **Midday**

"Lt. Brown," Bishop clicks her tongue, flipping open a small pad, "What can you tell us about petty-officer Farah?"

McGee takes his seat next to her, in front of the table, letting her have this one. "Umm," The young Lieutenant scratches his head awkwardly, "Farah was one of my best men," he says after a short pause, voice a bit shaky, "I still can't believe he's gone. I mean… who would _do_ this?"

A sigh, and then, "He just returned from overseas deployment," The Lt. responds, "He was so glad to be stationed here, along with his unite. He was trying to make a good thing out of himself, to blend in, to belong… I can't even believe… after everything he's been through… now this…"

At this, McGee arches and eyebrow, "Can you go into more detail?" he requests.

Another pause and then, "Look… Everybody around here knows who Abdullah Farah was. Born in Cairo, his family immigrated to America after some radicals burned down their church in Cairo. Being Christian in a Muslim country was never a safe thing, so after one crisis too many, they moved to the states. But he had a rough time, hung out with bad crowd… We all know he had this thing with…"

"…with..?"

"Computers. A true computer whiz. A professional hacker. When was 17, he hacked into the wrong kind of system, if you get what I mean. Stole some cash."

"Did he?" McGee ponders, "How much are we talking about, here?"

"About 1.7 million, if I'm correct."

"Whah!" Eleanor's eyes widen, "And he didn't serve time for it?" She doesn't recall reading anything about it in his file.

"He was given a choice. Military or 'The Big House'. He made the right choice, retrieved whatever he took. We felt honored to have him with us."

Bishop nods, "Did anybody in your team have any problem with him?" she asks.

Shaking his head, Lt. Brown replies, "Oh no. My men loved him, he was like a brother to them all. He was well respected here."

Nodding in understanding, Bishop asks, "Did you know of any happenings in his life? Changes in behavior? Was he stressed or on alert, lately?"

Thinking deep, the Lt. says, "Now when you mention it, he did seem a bit nervous in the last couple of weeks. I asked him about it, and he said then that it's just some problems he has with his sister. Nothing too big."

McGee opens his pad, "I guess we're talking about Fath'ia Farah, Abdullah's next-of-kin," he says, "I read she's his older sister. Currently lives in New York."

Bishop offers a slight nod, "We'll contact her soon enough," she quietly says, "As well as visit his house." Facing the Lt. again, she asks, "Anything else you can tell us?"

He's hesitating, but comes to a decision minutes later, "I think he night have regressed to hacking again," he cracks.

Bishop didn't see that one coming, "Wait, what?" she asks, "Why didn't you say… what makes you say that?"

"Well, I visited his house a few times in the last month, and he was always busy on his laptop. At first I thought nothing of it, but he was a bit obsessed. I noticed some codes written on the board behind him at his home-office, but I didn't think too much of it until now. I'm sorry, ma'am, I should have said something earlier." He's deeply embarrassed.

"Yeah, you should have," McGee replies, then turns to Bishop, "If he hacked into the wrong kind of system, again, it may be what got him killed," he thinks aloud.

"We need to get hold of that laptop," Bishop concludes, then turns to Lt. Brown, "Thank you for your time, Lt. If you can think of anything else that can help us, please don't hesitate to call."

* * *

Petty-officer's Farah's house is quite fresh and clean, considering. The walls recently wallpapered, furniture brand-new, house clean from dust or mess. A few photos are in the livingroom, most of them with his team, one of them with a short, beautiful woman they guess is his sister, Fath'ia.

On the wall in the kitchen the nation's flag is hung, McGee mumbles, "A real patriot… from what it seems he felt proud of serving," and Bishop silently agrees. Walking silently through a sided hallway, they open the door to what seems to be the private office, and then…-

"Whoooaaoh," Bishop's eyes widen at the sight, "This is officially…outstanding."

You can say that again. It is indeed Farah's private office, but the office itself is hidden behind a mass of files. Papers stick onto every wall, on them scribbles of what seems to be letters and numbers, ordered in some sort of unreadable codes. Digits and numbers, letters and doodles, on the wallpapers, wrap- sheets and notes, those cover the room, overwhelming the agents.

On the wall in fronts of them, they see a huge black poster, filled with certain codes Bishop has trouble understanding. The pattern looks familiar, though. It's a mix of letters and numbers, written randomly and right above them, there's a questioned marked in white, _"Are you ready for a challenge"?_

"Wow," Bishop says again, "I think it is a safe bet to say Farah was hacking again." She enters the room, looking around, "I mean _… what the hell is this_?"

Blinking, obviously fascinated, it takes McGee exactly three seconds to figure it out, "It's Hex language," he mumbles aloud.

She clicks her tongue. That is why the pattern seems familiar.

'It's Hexadecimal numeral system. Computer language. It's a use of certain coding. Its base is 16. 16 symbols, usually numbers from 0 to 9, and ABC letters.' She learned about it briefly at the NSA. Though cracking this kind of language is not something she tried before.

McGee approaches the board loaded with unreadable codes, overwhelmed by the riddle they hold, "He obviously was trying to crack some kind of Hex-code. And look," A certain line among the huge mix of them is in bold, "It may be this one…" he writes it down, "82… d3… 54…aa…"

"Do you know what it means?" Bishop asks, nearly impatient, "Can you make anything of it?"

"As if, right now? Ha. No. This is some serious hacking system Farah was trying to break through. It's going to take some time to figure out. This is way out of my league," he admits, still amazed.

Bishop scratches her head awkwardly, before making her way to the work-desk, reaching for the laptop, "We're going to need this," she says shortly, "I bet Farah was trying to crack this encryption."

McGee agrees, "I believe we have everything we need," he says, "Let's go."

* * *

 **May 22** **nd** **,**

 **Neve Sha'anan neighborhood, Tel Aviv, Israel**

 **Late Night**

It's not a common thing, for Captain George to make housecalls. However, when he picked up the cellphone and heard Miriam's frantic voice telling him of this night's events, he knew he had to come. Reckless captain aside, he was a good gentleman, and came to make sure the girl was alright.

It is only an hour later when they first began their "real talk".

Pacing around her small apartment, George hesitates. Assembling the pieces, he thinks aloud, "Spoke cryptically. Acted fast, with apparent physical capability. Didn't kill you… You probably know as well as I do who those people were."

Biting her lip, Miriam states, "The Mossad."

He nods, taping his chin with his index finger, "I guess they figured out that we're looking into the farm-house fire case. Fact that they went this far as attacking you on the street tells me we hit a nerve. There's something they're hiding. And considering your finding, they're probably right in the center of it." After a short pause, he turns back to Miriam, folding his hand on his chest, "We didn't make copies of all the information… I need that casefile back".

With a snort, she says, "I don't usually doubt your physical capabilities, George. But you're still an old man. Tough, but going gray," at his narrowing eyes, she smiles, "They were young and healthy, like I bet most of their combatants are. What exactly are you going to do? You can't charge at them, you have no idea how or where to do this."

Nodding again, he releases his folded hands, letting them drop next to his body. "You're right. Which is why we're going to use some extra help," at her tilted head, he replies, "You still have the number of our American contact, don't you?"

Her forehead clears in understanding, she answers "Of course," with a slight smile, "Heard he went off grid, but I'm sure he'll be willing for another mission or two, if necessary."

"Good to hear," comments George shortly, "I'd like you to call him first thing. Tell him what we're dealing with here, and that I expect his call back. You take a day off, Miriam. You need it."

Smiling at him with gratitude, she gently replies, "I'll inform the hospital I had a little 'mishap', but thanks, George."

"Don't sweat it," he makes his way to the door, "Oh. And put some eyes on that bruise. It's starting to swell."

With that, he leaves.

* * *

 **May 23** **nd** **, 2016**

 **NCIS building**

Gibbs bursts into the sterile room, a gush of wind follows his dramatic entrance, "Talk to me, Ducky," he requests shortly.

Turning to face Gibbs, he smiles at the agent, "Well, hello, Jethro," he greets, "And well," he hovers over the body again, his hands digs into the tissues, "Like we analyzed at first, it was indeed the gunshot that finished our poor man's life," he lets in, "Which was after several and cruel beatings to the legs, neck and chest. Those techniques are common among several guerrilla organizations in the Mid-East; first were the cruel beatings, then- lights out with firearm."

Gibbs nods, "He had something they wanted," he hums.

"And when he failed to give it up, they killed him," Ducky finished.

"You think there's terrorist involvement?" Gibbs inquires, "Thought it was about cyber-crime."

"It could still be," Ducky offers a shrug, "But those who did it were professionals who knew what they were doing, if there were not radicals, they knew how to mimic them quite well."

Which complicates things even more, if possible.

"Thank you, Ducky," Gibbs replies, before exiting the room, "Keep me posted!"

"You know I will!" Ducky calls right after him.

* * *

 **May 23** **nd** **, 2016**

 **NCIS building, Abby's lab**

 **Same Time**

Abby sits infront of her computer screen, clicking the keyboard hurriedly, while next to her sits McGee, looking at a piece of paper, scratching his head awkwardly.

"Oh!" he calls abruptly, making Abby jump, "Sorry. But try this. "ac 22.. 7…9."

With a sigh, the repeats the combination, then groans, "No, that's not it…" she detaches from the keyboard to rub her eyes, "Surprisingly, another dead end."

"Argghhh!" McGee grunts, frustrated, "It has to be it! Otherwise, we enter base 15, which makes no sense at all!" he writes down another combination on the note, then draws a big X on the last two combinations attempted, "We've been over this for 5 hours! How complicated can a one simple code be?!" he's about to explode. Computer language never disappointed him that much.

Abby makes a face, "Seriously, McGee?" she asks, "The guy was trying to crack this thing down like his life depended on it. Which is kind of ironic, considering the circumstances his life probably ended. You really think you could crack this code in no time?" she snatches the paper out of his hand, gaining herself a "Hey!", checking the encryptions he wrote down, "Give me that. You probably calculated this all wrong."

"So, now you're a hacker, too?" McGee folds his arms on his chest, "Abby, you have no idea about computer language. And this is Hexadecimal system."

"- It's pure math for big boys," she brushes it off, staring at the paper with concentration. "Hang on a second," she clicks her tongue, "Of course it doesn't make sense, McGee!" she looks at him with disappointment, "You were supposed to change each one to decimal first!"

He just states.

"Even I knew that!"

Still staring.

He snatches the paper back from her, trying to figure out what she meant. Then it all began to make sense. "0x82. 0xd3," he mumbles, writing it down with shaky hands, "0x54. 0xaa… IP to decimal equation should give…" he calculated, "130…211…04…170".

He gazes at Abby, who then enters the combination hurriedly. The browser starts loading process.

McGee's chin drops, "Did we just crack this thing?" he mumbles, amazed.

The page completes loading process; they're faced with a black screen, on it, written in white, there's the greeting, "Welcome back, ^Agent 37^."

"I guess we did." Abby says.

The page links them to another, when McGee says, "It's "RDeX" code that we should put here. We need the first part of the third combination."

The fact that they opened the first gate into solving whatever it is Farah was hacking, was like an energy-shot to both Agent and Forensic scientist.

It was another ten minutes before they were let into the final page. Another black browser, with foreign language letters.

It's when they're finally in, when MgCee gasps, and Abby's eyes widen.

 _"What the hell is this?!"_ she calls, astonished.

* * *

Two floors above them, a young man picks up his cellphone after the third ring. "Hello. Yes, good morning. Who is this? Ah. Of course. I didn't recognize your voice. Lovely to hear from you as always," he opens up his personal drawer, greeting his partner good morning, as she just entered the squad-room, "Yes, I see. Well, I'm sorry to hear that. Oh. What? Ah, you don't say…. Well… It sounds interesting," he smiles to himself, "Why won't we discuss it in about 7 hours, once I'm back from work? Ok? Lovely. Always good to hear from you, Miriam. Goodbye."

* * *

 **May 23** **nd** **, 2016**

 **NCIS building, Abby's lab**

 **Later**

"Do you have something for me, Abby?" Gibbs asks as he burst into the room. Nodding once at McGee, he asks, "You cracked this code down?"

Abby, still shocked, says, "Oh, but we did, Gibbs. And if by "Got anything", you mean, got my mind blown!" she spreads her arms in emphasis.

McGee, next to her, seems overwhelmed, so he leaves it to abby, "Once we converted the code to Decimal and RDeX combination, we came across this IP and web addresses," she points at the screen behind her, which had several windows open. "The 'big secret' behind the address was nothing but emails with someone called 'The Black Queen'. Probably s cover." She approaches the screen, "First thing I came across was information, about NCIS."

Gibbs' forhead wrinkles, and McGee says, "This guy was gathering information about NCIS operations. At first we didn't make much of it, but the more we looked into it, the more we were left stunned. It held at least 20 pages of information regarding specific NCIS agents."

Gibbs' face changes into menacing alert, "Who?" he asks.

"You." Abby says with emphasis, "And Tony. And I'm not talking about cases only. He was looking into your lives. Cases you've solved, the women you married. Hell, the name of Tony's first girlfriend."

"How did he know or why did he take interest into both of you, we don't know," says McGee, "But the real problem here is, he wasn't gathering information about you for himself. He passed it on to whomever he was contacting."

Gibbs take it all in. He doesn't yet know what to make of the information given to him.

"And that's not even the half of it," Says Abby.

"I'm listening," replies Gibbs.

"Once with continued with cracking the code, it offered us information written in foreign languages. If to be precise, three. Arabic, Hebrew and Farsi. We couldn't make sense of it all, but we did find the final piece of the puzzle, which left us confused out of our minds."

Gibbs is silent. Abby approaches the computer, opens up another window, the one last portal to the riddle.

A round symbol with Hebrew letters is visible on the screen. The pattern seems familiar, and it takes about a second for Gibbs to recall where he knows it from.

"Familiar? It's the exact symbol as it appears on their headquarters building," she rolls the page down, offering him but a glance into what they discovered, "Farah was trying to heck into Mossad's main system, and it seems like he succeeded."

They all fall silent.

"Gibbs, what the hell did we just get ourselves mixed-up in?!"

* * *

TBC


End file.
